


the bones of a thing about to collapse

by cosmicpoet



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: (mentioned in very minor detail), Alternate Universe - 1920s, Detectives, F/M, M/M, Murder Mystery, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 19:45:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15713844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicpoet/pseuds/cosmicpoet
Summary: In the thick of the Roaring 20s, Kamukura is a Private Investigator, called out to a murder scene. There's something about this place calledHope's Peak, and about the singer who works there, a man shrouded by rumour. The nameKomaedahushes the lips of a decade that will stretch out into collapse.





	the bones of a thing about to collapse

Kamukura slinks further into his chair as the wild heat of summer rages against his back; his suit, well pressed to further his image, sticks to him with the sweat of being still and stoic. Being a Private Investigator in the thick of the Roaring Twenties leaves him exhausted after having done little work - the call-outs to bootlegging and parties leave him bored, and yet his job details that he must at least file reports, and so his time, which he had once envisioned as too precious to ever slip away from him, becomes monopolised by monotony.

The blinds on the window of his office door remain closed. Disturbing Kamukura on a sweltering Tuesday afternoon is asking for trouble, and sustained in the knowledge that he is respected enough to have his privacy held sacred, he loosens his tie, leans back in his chair, and rubs his eyes. Ticking on outside goes the world, all those new cars built and bought at the expense of the men on the lowest line, sinking in poverty for the sake of the image of the rich. It disgusts him, and yet he knows that disturbing the flow may knock him off the pedestal he has so carefully built. His only penance for this is to throw some money into the cases of the old jazz singers performing in the ashes of the world.

As such, he’s thinking about the state of the world again. How he’s stuck in the bones of the thing, the aching midway of a decade, with gold painted over the oncoming onslaught of something. Smart as he is, he understands that a society built on such hedonism cannot be self-sustaining. One day, it will end, and he wants to be far, far away when it does.

But staying far away from this old town is a feat that he has not yet accomplished. Not when investigative cases keep him in his one bedroom apartment with heat and food and all those other things that people take for granted if they’ve always had them. Kamukura doesn’t talk about his past - it’s a rule of his not to disclose anything that could ever be used against him in court or on the streets, but he’s no stranger to death and fights, blood on his gums and knuckles, worming its way into his soul and rotting there.

It’s this thought that smashes into fragility in his mind when he’s disturbed by somebody opening his office door. Soon enough, the image of death will return to him again, slicing its gruesome self onto the pieces left by the impact, fragments of a life not entirely well lived, but convincingly sufficient. 

And yet the matter at hand stands. There’s a woman closing his office door behind her, leaving them alone in the room.

“I should introduce myself,” she says.

“Should you?”

“I’m looking for your help, if you want to provide it.”

She speaks with a soft voice, but there’s firmness in her words. Kamukura can’t decide whether she intended to present her last statement as such, or as a question. He looks her over - she’s well dressed enough to be in this part of town, but not so high-fashion to be one of the married socialites who never work a day and find that dissatisfaction seeps through money and into the cracks of purchase and pardon. No, this woman seems business-like, and that’s something, at least, that he can find slight respect for.

“Go on,” he says.

“My name is Nanami. I’m the owner of Hope’s Peak, y’know the downtown bar? There’s been a murder in my establishment, last night. I’m coming to you instead of the police because I think it’s to do with the mafia, and I would rather not put myself or my employees in danger. I trust you can be discreet?”

“Discreet is my specialty, Nanami. But I have a price; I don’t investigate for free.”

“Naturally,” she says, likely having expected such a response. She slides a sizeable wad of cash over the counter - a little more than Kamukura would have named as his price, but he’s not going to complain about that nor even bring it up.

“Alright,” he tells her, “go back to Hope’s Peak. Gather your employees, especially anyone who was working last night. Tell nobody to leave the building - actually, let them go outside for a smoke if they need, it’s hot and it’s just cruel to stick them in the heat of four walls - but no further than a few feet away. I’ll be over within the hour.”

Nanami bows her head in gratitude and leaves the room.

A murder. Far more interesting than the cases that people normally drone on about, and the danger thrills him. It’s hard for Kamukura to feel much of anything these days, with the incessant shrill of work and society buzzing in his ears, his mind seems stripped of all the pleasures and thoughts which make such a thing free. And yet, there’s concern, too; should he be so passionate about running recklessly into a mafia situation?

Of course he should. It would be stupid to think otherwise. Kamukura thrives in danger, licks it up like honey on ice in all the hot days of every summer, glazing over his immortal soul and hitching his breath into sharp gasps. Danger means pain, and pain means feeling, and that’s something that he yearns for in the days that become the months that become the long years of the stretched-out 1920s.

Packing up his briefcase with essential supplies, he checks his suit in the mirror before leaving. As an afterthought, he wisps his hair away from his face and ties it loosely with a black ribbon - it could get in the way of investigating, and it’s far too hot to frame his face anyway.

* * *

 

When he arrives at Hope’s Peak, he takes his own advice and has a smoke before going into the building. Slinking into the shadows, where the only heaven above is the endless chain of fire-escapes, he expects to be alone. But there’s someone else there.

He stands like a ghost. His skin pale, his hair feathery and a little unkempt; although he wears a suit, the tie has been long since discarded, and the first few buttons seem to be done up haphazardly and left to hang loose. The suit jacket, which Kamukura is sure must be expensive, is slung over his shoulder like it’s nothing more than a raincoat that one would wear once and then discard. This man seems to be completely engrossed in the spark of his cigarette, and not about his appearance at all.

Which astounds Kamukura. In front of him stands a man who must be as dissatisfied with society as he himself is, perhaps even an anarchist or disestablishmentarian. 

“You work here?” Kamukura asks. The man nods, tilting his head slightly, as if he’s examining Kamukura. He’d be lying if he said that such a gesture didn’t unnerve him, but evidently not enough so to make him leave.

“I’m Komaeda,” the man says, “I was workin’ last night.”

“You don’t talk like you’re from round here.”

“Maybe I’m not.”

“Interesting.”

“And you think that makes me a murderer, mister…? Well, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Kamukura. And no, I just think that a man who operates in this end of town has to be a damn brave soul not to at least fake a high class accent.”

“Is that what _you_ do, Kamukura? Fake it?”

“This isn’t about me. And you don’t have to answer anything. I’m only a PI; you’re not under any legal obligation to talk to me.”

“I ain’t doin’ it cause I’m scared of the law.”

“What are you scared of, Komaeda? Were you scared of the victim?”

“Ah, you don’t even know who died yet, an’ look at me, taking up all your time. I do apologise.”

Komaeda doesn’t even hesitate to take the blame; without even letting Kamukura say a word in response, he walks inside. Kamukura is about to follow him when he’s stopped at the door by Nanami and led in a different direction. He walks towards the kitchen, anticipation in his step, when he realises that he must present an expression of sorrow, perhaps mingled with a little horror, to appear ‘normal’ to those who don’t understand him.

The body is, as bodies go, in a fairly usual state of death. The victim has terror in his eyes, but a smile, as though his last act was something that he thought he was on top of; there’s a single gunshot wound in his chest and the blood pools out underneath him with no traces of smear - he died in this spot, Kamukura can conclude.

“His name was Kuzuryu,” Namami says, “he was an active member of the mafia. I saw him a couple of times, in and out of Hope’s Peak, but he never caused much trouble.”

“Right. And he was shot, I presume, after closing?”

“Yes. I came in at midday to open up and get ready for the evening swell of customers, and I found him here, in the kitchen.”

“So that’s going to be a bit of a bitch with alibis,” Kamukura sighs, “but whatever. I’d like to go and talk to the people who were working last night, now.”

“Of course,” Nanami says, “but I’d advise you to speak to Kuzuryu’s wife first. She won’t be here much longer, she only came for proof of his death and to speak to the PI, you.”

“She came to speak to the PI? I presume she knows something about his enemies, then?”

“Enemies? Honey,” Nanami says, unintentionally condescending, “he was with the mafia. The whole goddamn town was his enemy.”

Kuzuryu’s wife, Pekoyama, sits with her back straight in a chair; her face is stern, yet worried at the same time, like she’s been taught to conceal her emotions. Whilst she wears all black, she still looks professional, in a suit that would be common for a man of the era to wear, her lips emboldened by red lipstick. Pekoyama wants the world to know its place in front of her.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Kamukura says.

“It’s no bother. I suspect you’ll need me for information.”

“Well, yes, I will, but I know that this bereavement has come very sudden to you.”

“It has happened, and that’s the end of it. If I’m honest, it’s not like it came completely out of the blue for me. The moment the mafia assigned him to this place, I knew he was gonna be fighting a losing battle.”

“Assigned him to this place?”

“Yeah. Something to do with this place selling bootlegged alcohol, and the mafia wanting in on the profits. Everyone normally turns a blind eye to it here, since Hope’s Peak is such a prominent hotspot, but not the mafia; they see money, and they’re like sharks with blood in the water.”

“And why did you think that Kuzuryu being assigned here would be the death of him?”

“Have you seen this place? The people that work here? It might be _the_ place to be in town, but it’s got shady undertones. I mean…you’ve heard the stories about Komaeda, right?”

“Komaeda?”

“The singer. Funny…I think he was working last night. Some say he killed his parents for their inheritance. Some say they left him because he was the child of the Devil.”

“And you really believe that stuff?”

“Of course I don’t. But word spreads fast when society is hanging onto itself by a thread. And there’s truth to every rumour.”

“So what do you think happened?”

“I think someone wanted to protect the honour of this place. That’s why the mafia sent Kuzuryu. Honestly? I think they knew he was going to die. He’d been promising me for months that he’d find a way to get out, so we could go far away from this town and live a normal life. But once you’re in the mafia, they won’t let you leave. So they sent him to his death.”

“Right. Thank you, Pekoyama. One last thing…aren’t you worried that the mafia will target you?”

“I don’t worry about anything. If something happens, it happens. I’m still devoted to my husband, and if the bastards who condemned him want to kill me, too, then they’ll have to fight for it. I’m not going down whilst his memory still burns in my mind.”

Kamukura walks away. It’s strange, but whenever anybody speaks about love in such a way, he freezes up. It’s not like he _wants_ love, it’s just that he doesn’t understand it, and as with everything that he doesn’t understand, he begins to fear it. And yet, the one thing he should be fearing, after Pekoyama’s stories and his nonchalant appearance, is Komaeda. 

But he’s only growing ever-intrigued.

He spots Komaeda sitting at a bar table, his feet up on the seat beside him. His eyes are trained onto the ceiling, wistfully looking as if all he can see are the clouds and the expanse of everything.

“Ah, Kamukura,” Komaeda says, but Kamukura notes that Komaeda never looked up to see him approach, “pleasure to see you again.”

“I’ve heard more about you.”

“Oh, do tell.”

“They say you’re dangerous around these parts.”

“Is that all they’re sayin’ now? Last I heard, it was more specific. They say I killed my parents, or that I’m some sorta Antichrist.”

“Well, yes, I have heard those things, but I thought it would be best not to bring them up.”

“They’re wrong, y’know?”

“I gathered that they were. I don’t believe in the Devil.”

“Does the Devil believe in himself?” Komaeda asks. Kamukura gets the feeling that this isn’t a question directed at him.

“I…”

“Nah, I’m just messin’ with ya,” Komaeda laughs, his accent becoming thicker, “so c’mon. Ask your questions, detective.”

“Private Investigator, actually. But you can just call me Kamukura, really. Tell me…why do you work here?”

“That’s a little more…intimate than I expected. Is this a questioning or a date?” Komaeda says, and then immediately falters, taking his feet off the seat and looking directly at Kamukura for the first time since they were outside. “I’m sorry, I just…I’m not like…it’s just that a lot of women ask me stuff like that after I perform and I…”

“Komaeda, calm down. You’re not on trial here. I’ll keep any secrets you’ve got. But, moving on, why _do_ you work here?”

“It’s nothin’ more than a hobby, really. I don’t need the money. Y’know…my parents _are_ dead, I just didn’t kill ‘em. It was just someone at the end of their luck, down on cash, who saw a rich couple walkin’ alone in the middle of the night. They got shot, and he got a pearl necklace and my father’s wallet.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You couldn’t’a stopped it. After that, their fortune was just sittin’ on its own. It’s like all the bad luck of the guy who killed ‘em transferred to me, and I was tossed from orphanage to orphanage, workin’ with fixin’ cars and sellin’ roses on the side of the street to the people who wore cologne like my father, until I came of age and inherited millions.”

“And you work here for a hobby?”

“It passes the time. And I like it. Any establishment that blazes hope as its name earns my respect. This place is like my home, y’know, cause it gets lonely in a big mansion on my own. But on that stage, when I’m singin’, I feel like I got the world at my whims; all those bankers and stockbrokers and men whose wives are at home come here, and they hear me sing, and it’s like I can kinda produce my own brand of hope to pour out to these people.”

“Hope? Why’s that significant?”

Komaeda leans into Kamukura, whispering now. “‘Cause I know that luck works like a cycle. You get the bad, then you get the good, and then you get the bad again. It’s some kinda attraction law or somethin’. And we’re midway through the decade with society split in two, the unsustainable rich and the destitute poor. That’s gonna crash at some point.”

“And when it does?”

“That’s when hope can shine. When the rich see their houses ripped away from ‘em, when their stocks fall, when everythin’ becomes meaningless and we’re all on equal ground, that’s when we’ll be judged by the hope in our souls and not the money in our banks. And I’ll tell ya what…I can’t wait.”

“Right,” Kamukura says, “I’ll keep that in mind if I buy any stocks. Now, I’m going to ask you some things pertaining to the murder.”

“Go ahead.”

“Where were you last night?”

“I was in here, singin’ like I usually am. After that I…I went home, drank a bottle of wine - I trust you won't do me in for enjoyin’ a drink - and then woke up the next mornin’.”

“And at no point did you come back to Hope’s Peak after you left?”

“Nope.”

“So there’s no chance you saw anyone entering or leaving the building after hours?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Right. Thank you for your time, Komaeda.”

“Hey, Kamukura, wait,” Komaeda says, holding Kamukura’s arm as he gets up from his seat, “I’m having a party at my place tonight. It doesn’t seem like your scene, but it’s barely mine, either. There’ll just be a lot of important people there. You might get some more information.”

Komaeda slips Kamukura a card with an address on, and then slinks away behind the bar, presumably for a drink.

* * *

 

There’s really no question in Kamukura’s mind about whether he should attend the party. In the soft light of the evening, in his best suit, with the address in hand, he tries to tell himself that he’s going purely for information, but that would be a lie to even himself.

Komaeda’s house - no, mansion - is exquisite, but even filled with all these socialites and people who just want free bootlegged alcohol, it seems lonely. There are far too many bedrooms for one man, and he wonders how Komaeda doesn’t live in constant fear of being attacked in his own home, especially with a murderer on the loose. Still, when a waiter offers him champagne, he accepts, thinking that perhaps just one drink will open his mind to further thought upon the investigation.

Across the room, he sees Peko, standing on her own next to an ornate bookshelf, the books with the pages haphazardly torn and stacked in no specific order. Contemplating approaching her, he decides against it, thinking that he’s got everything he can out of her, and that she’ll likely need some time alone. Perhaps she’s only at this party to surround herself with people for her own safety.

Rumours hang thick in the air, as Kamukura imagines they always must do at parties like this. The name _Komaeda_ drips off everyone’s lips like champagne, a word that seeps into the milk-light of the night and wisps into the air, a fleeting story about a man with hope in his heart. Dangerous hope. Kamukura has always considered hope to be a dangerous thing, because it never leads to something greater than itself; only ever sameness, or crushing disappointment. 

_“Komaeda made a deal with the Devil for his fortune.”_

And the Devil - what of him? If he even existed, would he not just be another soul tortured by hope? Stricken from heaven’s light and dethroned, the Devil must be Tantalus, reaching for a hope that he will never find; and now, Kamukura starts to understand why Komaeda has no energy nor will to dissuade the cruel rumours about him. He’s playing a role, as everyone at this party is.

Suddenly, everything clicks into place. Hope’s Peak, Komaeda’s obsession, Kuzuryu’s mafia mission. There’s motive, and intent. But could Komaeda have been the one to shoot a prominent mafia member? Would even he go that far?

It dawns on Kamukura how little he knows of the man who’s hosting all these people for the evening. 

And yet, he presses on, away from the light flickering off the champagne glasses, into the belly of the mansion, rooms encircling him and twisting their guise around his body. Looking for Komaeda in this place is like entering a Dantean fantasy, layers upon layers of falsity, deception, all in the pursuit of something akin to hope.

It is not Kamukura who finds Komaeda. Komaeda, having willed it to be, finds him first, and beckons him into a room.

Furnished with a four poster bed and a dresser, the room feels different to all the rest. Of course, it’s garnished with all the riches that one would expect in the bedroom of a millionaire, but everything is out of place; diamonds are not displayed, but confined to closets and drawers as if they’re no more useful than rocks. 

“This is my bedroom,” Komaeda sighs.

“I figured. I want to talk to you.”

“I knew you would. That’s why I invited you.”

“Did you kill Kuzuryu?”

“I want you to tell me why you think I did.”

“Alright. It’s a tentative connection, but with your fixation on hope, and the idea of Hope’s Peak being that shining establishment of hope for you, and with what Pekoyama said about the mafia wanting to get in on this…I think you’d do anything to protect the legacy and sanctity of something that you admire.”

“Go on.”

“I think that having the mafia profit from hope would be in direct opposition to your ideals. And, pardon me, even though I’ve only known you for a day, I feel like you would put your life on the line to protect what you believe in.”

“You certainly know my character well. Have you taken this to the police?”

“No. I’m just a PI. Why? Are you planning to kill me?”

“Of course not. You don’t even know if I killed Kuzuryu yet.”

“Well, did you?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you tell me that?”

“Because I don’t think you’re going to go to the police.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No…it’s my hope.”

“Your hope?”

“Yes. You know, I host these parties ‘cause it feels so lonely to be in this house on my own. I’ve got money stashed away in more banks and more places than I’d know where to start. One day, all of that is gonna dissipate and leave me with nothin’. I figured that my life is gonna end up in the gutter; it’s just the natural progression of luck. So I’m the perfect person to throw away his life for hope.”

“You really think that? That you’re the person who has it hardest in the whole world?”

“Of course I don’t. There are people out there starving on the streets, but I can’t change the world with fortune or fame. I can change it with hope, and I’d do anything to protect that.”

“Even killing Kuzuryu?”

“Even killing Kuzuryu.”

“I’ve already got your confession. I could leave right now, and go to the police. But I…I don’t want to. I want you to tell me exactly what happened last night.”

“Alright, Kamukura. I finished up my performance. Course, I’d overheard rumours, and for once, they weren’t about me. I heard about the mafia, about profits, and bootlegging, so I stayed outside the building for an hour or so ’til I was sure that everyone was gone. And when I saw a guy walking into the kitchen through the staff entrance, I followed him.”

“And?”

“And he just stood there, examining everything. When I approached him, he told me he wouldn’t hesitate to burn this place to the ground. Y’know, Kamukura, there are people in the mafia who can fraud insurance companies so that all the profits would’a gone to the mafia, and not to Nanami.”

“I did know that, yes.”

“So I pulled out my gun, and I shot him. Didn’t even think about it, just thought about protecting Nanami and her hope, and mine, too. But then I realised what I’d done. Killing for the sake of hope is still killing, and sure, I didn’t feel guilty - I still don’t - but I thought that I’d finally sent myself over the edge and it was my time to meet my supposed best friend, the Devil. You know what I did?”

“What did you do?”

“I put that same gun to my head, and I fired. But it jammed. The damn thing, my damn luck…it jammed. And in that instant, I thought about things. Why should I have to die for this? Why not let people investigate, see if true hope could shine through Nanami, and later, through you.”

“So why did you confess if you wanted me to figure it out?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. I just…I see some kinda hope in you that I don’t see in others. It’s not like you even need any help to shine. You’re just…there. Like, this whole damn world is burning itself out and you embrace the ashes of what’s to come. Seein’ you, I guess I just…believed in something that I didn’t have to create.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I’m not turning you into the police. I’m sick and tired of this damn town and this damn morality. You have money and I have wits, we can skip town tonight and nobody will know where we’ve gone. My car’s outside. What do you say?”

“Is this…?”

“Hope? This is decision, Komaeda. Incentive. Risk. And they’re all on the pathway to true hope…ultimate hope.”

“Alright.”

In Kamukura’s car, the road slips past them like sand through grasping fingertips, until the night is just a memory that has inevitably stretched on into another morning; again and again, twisting on the invention of the wheel into a burning forever. 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by The Great Gatsby and somewhat by Agatha Christie's detective works. Written as a birthday gift for my wonderful friend Dani.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed this!


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